


For the Kid in a Lonely Town

by nessa_j



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Bruce just wants to stop being handcuffed to things, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sounding, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 02:46:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19781665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nessa_j/pseuds/nessa_j
Summary: After 5x03After Selina leaves him handcuffed to the gate, Bruce is left to fend for himself when it turns out he's not alone in the church.





	For the Kid in a Lonely Town

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Tells Me "Worship in the Bedroom"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17527922) by [countessrivers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessrivers/pseuds/countessrivers). 



> I started watching Gotham, and then this happened.
> 
> Inspired by the great countessrivers, except that their work is a coherent masterpiece, and this is... not.

It takes Bruce longer than he would like to admit to pick the handcuffs. He blames it on lack of sleep, definitely not because it’s difficult to see through the tears of Selina’s betrayal. Not even twenty minutes earlier she had demanded his loyalty, demanded to know whose side he was on, and now she throws it in his face as soon as she’s able?

The lock clicking seems unnaturally loud in the empty room. Bruce winces at the sound. It’s unlikely there’s anyone around besides the bodies of the dead pilgrims littering the hallway and pool, they would have found him by now, but Bruce can’t help the feeling of  _ wrong _ that settles over him.

He needs to leave. Now. He debates following after Selina and Ecco, stopping Selina from doing something she’ll regret, but he has no idea where they went, and it’s a long walk back alone in the Dark Zone. 

He pushes down the wave of nausea that threatens to spill out as he steps over the bodies in the hallway. He tries not to think of how wasteful it seems, how Jeremiah used them and then threw them away like they were nothing. 

Jeremiah.

Bruce stops at the top of the steps to stare at the stained-glass portrait. His chest aches as he gazes upon the corrupted image of his friend. He wants to hate the man for what he’s done, for all the destruction he’s caused, but he can’t. Some small part of him still sees the man underneath, the brilliant, quiet engineer that Bruce loved. Bruce tries to lock that part of himself away, but it always comes back in dreams, whispering  _ what ifs _ and showing him unreachable potentials.

What if he’d killed Jerome back at the carnival? What if he’d offered Jeremiah a ride home that night instead of letting him walk alone back to the bunker? What if he’d told someone about the generator project? What if instead of going to the cemetery, Bruce pulled Jeremiah away from Jerome’s journal and distracted him with lips and bodies?

Bruce doesn’t see the figure sliding up behind him. He blames exhaustion and fatigue for the fact that he doesn’t notice he’s been pushed until his body is already tumbling down the steps to rest on the landing, his head smashing into the metal railing with an echoing  _ clang _ .

It takes Bruce a long moment to orient himself beyond the ringing in his ears and the blurry sting of blood dripping into his eye. When he does, it’s to find Jeremiah standing above him, a sinister grin on the man’s face and a dark hunger in his unnatural eyes. 

“Well, it looks like the little alley cat brought me a gift. My very own beautiful, broken, baby bird,” Jeremiah chuckles. “I’ll have to send her a thank you note.”

“Don’t you touch her,” Bruce manages to snarl, memories of a gun, and blood, and a broken coffee table fighting their way through the pain.

“Relax, Brucie. I was thinking something more along the lines of a fruit basket, but fresh fruit is pretty hard to come by these days.”

Jeremiah drops down suddenly, straddling Bruce’s prone form. Bruce starts to struggle, but Jeremiah just cups his face lovingly before slamming his head back into the ground. “Now, what should I do with you, my darling Bruce? It would be ungrateful to not fully appreciate a gift, and I am so very grateful to that little bitch for bringing you to me.”

“What do you want, Jeremiah?” Bruce bites out once the room stops spinning.

“I want a great many things, but for now I’ll settle for you being still like a good little boy.” Jeremiah punctuates this statement by grabbing at Bruce’s hands and dragging them up, holding both wrists with one hand while he rummages through his jacket pocket.

Bruce suppresses his annoyed sigh when Jeremiah triumphantly reveals a pair of handcuffs, possibly the same ones that Bruce had just escaped from if the scratches around the lock are any indication. He’s getting real tired of being chained up. 

Jeremiah seems satisfied once Bruce’s wrists are chained to the ornate metal railing behind his head, but the older man makes no effort to get up from his position. If anything, he lets his weight settle further across Bruce’s hips, his gloved hands lying idly on Bruce’s chest.

“What do I want?” Jeremiah muses casually. “I want you to reach your full potential, to become the man you are destined to be, to embrace the darkness inside you.”

Jeremiah’s hands had begun stroking along Bruce’s chest while he spoke, and Bruce struggled not to squirm against the intimacy. It was a wicked parody of the soft touches from his dreams, and it had been a very long time since he’d allowed himself that sort of comfort. 

“Right now though? I want something a lot less abstract, and a lot more attainable.”

Bruce shivers. When had Jeremiah’s lips gotten so close to his own? He knows he should be fighting this, should be working towards incapacitating Jeremiah and getting out of the handcuffs (again). 

But deep down, he wants this. If he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend that they’re back in the bunker, that the past four months were nothing but a bad dream. He can’t bring himself to be the one to bridge the remaining space between them, but he doesn’t struggle when Jeremiah presses their lips together. 

Almost instantly Bruce realizes that this is a mistake. It hurts too much, knowing the taste and weight of Jeremiah’s lips against his own, knowing that it can never reach the potential of what could have been. Bruce pulls away and turns his head to the side.

“Please don’t,” he whispers, not even sure that Jeremiah will hear him.

Jeremiah does hear him though. He pulls back and sits up, the poisonous grin spreading across his face reminds Bruce of Jerome.

“Brucie, darling, I don’t think you understand the position you’re in right now.” 

The hands on Bruce’s chest clench tight at his leather jacket for a moment before relaxing, nimble fingers moving to undo the zipper. Only Jeremiah doesn’t stop at just the jacket, tearing Bruce’s shirt from where it’s tucked into his pants, exposing the vulnerable flesh of his stomach. 

“I can do whatever I want right now, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me. No one is going to come save you, Bruce. That little bitch left you here to die, Jim Gordon is way too busy dealing with the pathetic lowlifes, and I’m willing to bet you didn’t tell dear old Alfred where you were going. You’re mine, and no one is going to take that from me!”

Bruce starts struggling again when Jeremiah takes off his gloves and starts undoing Bruce’s belt buckle. He tries to twist his hips to throw the older man off of him, but all it seems to do is spur Jeremiah on. Jeremiah just laughs and moans.

“That’s it, Bruce, it feels so good when you struggle, so good rubbing yourself against me.” 

Bruce freezes instantly, icy fear filling his veins. Maybe Jeremiah’s right, maybe he’s gotten himself in over his head.

Jeremiah manages to get the button and zipper of his pants undone, and Bruce only barely suppresses the flinch when Jeremiah squeezes him roughly through his boxers. Whatever happens, he refuses to give Jeremiah the satisfaction of his reaction.

Jeremiah lifts his weight slightly to pull Bruce’s boxers down, and Bruce tries to use the opportunity to kick at Jeremiah’s head, but his motion is limited by the constraint of his pants around his thighs. 

“Oh Bruce, don’t make me tie your feet up too. This will be so much more enjoyable if you stop fighting it.”

“Jeremiah, you don’t have to do this. If you stop now, I can forgive you.” Bruce isn’t entirely sure that he’s lying.

“You still don’t see, do you? I’m doing this  _ for _ you, Bruce.”

Jeremiah rifles through his pocket again, and Bruce stares in confusion as he pulls out a screwdriver instead of the knife he was expecting. 

Jeremiah shrugs casually. “It’s not ideal, but it’ll do.”

Jeremiah drags the tip of the screwdriver along Bruce’s exposed stomach. The metal tip is duller than expected, but Bruce knows it wouldn’t take much pressure to pierce through him.

“Miah,” Bruce whispers warily, the old nickname slipping out.

“Now, like I said, this is for you, Bruce.” The screwdriver moves lower, and Bruce shivers at the cold metal against his soft dick. “Ra’s had convinced me that we needed to rebuild Gotham for you, that only from its ashes could you achieve your destiny.”

Jeremiah reaches into his pocket again, this time pulling out a tube of lubricant, which he generously poured over the screwdriver. Bruce tenses, staring at the screwdriver with dawning horror. 

“But maybe I don’t have to rebuild Gotham. Wouldn’t you like that? Your fraudulent friends and this wretched city saved? Maybe I just have to rebuild you, take you apart piece by piece and put you together again in a design of my own making.”

Only instead of inserting the screwdriver into Bruce’s hole like he’d expected, Jeremiah places the tip against the head of Bruce’s flaccid cock. Bruce freezes, thoughts of tearing, and infections, and pain racing through him.

“I am so looking forward to taking you apart,” Jeremiah whispers, slowly pressing the tool in.

Bruce can’t stop the whimper that escapes at the alien sensation of cold metal sliding into his urethra. He feels vulnerable, violated, and he has to force himself to remain still lest he do serious damage to his dick. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s not exactly comfortable either, and Bruce can feel tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. He can feel his lips forming the word “no” over and over again, but he’s not sure if any sound comes out.

“That’s it, Bruce. You’re being so well behaved for me.” 

Jeremiah stares at him with something close to reverence, and Bruce has to look away. He can’t bear to see such admiration and awe being connected with such a violent and invasive situation.

Once the screwdriver is inserted up to the handle, Jeremiah lets go and gently strokes at Bruce’s cock. Bruce hisses out a breath as his flesh starts to harden around the unyielding metal, responding to the tender touches despite the wave of revulsion that roils through him. 

“See, Brucie? Isn’t it so much better when you’re not fighting me? Think of how good it will feel if you just give in. I don’t want to hurt you, I want to show you that working with me doesn’t have to end with pain.”

Bruce is no stranger to being manipulated and violated (he has Jerome and Ra’s and the Court of Owls to thank for that), but Jeremiah’s touches  _ are _ starting to feel good, and Bruce is so very tired of fighting, of denying himself. He knows Jeremiah is going to continue touching him regardless of whether or not he lets himself want it, so what if he gives in? There’s no one around to see, no one will have to know. No one except Bruce will have to live with the consequences of his actions, the knowledge of what he’d done. 

Bruce sobs as he cranes his neck to press his lips against Jeremiah’s, guilt and regret wrestling with the pleasure that he feels. He can feel Jeremiah smile against him as he opens his mouth to Jeremiah’s tongue.

Bruce is unprepared for the blinding pleasure that sweeps through him when Jeremiah presses the screwdriver just a little deeper and twists. His vision whites out for a moment, and his wrists bruise where he pulls them desperately against the restraints. There’s a high pitched noise, and he thinks it might be him, whining, but he can’t be sure. 

Jeremiah laughs, delighted, into Bruce’s mouth and twists again. Bruce moans, and he hates himself for sounding so desperate, so slutty, but it feels so good, sparks of ecstacy racing through him.

The older man shifts his weight slightly, and Bruce can feel Jeremiah’s own erection pressing against his hip, a heavy warmth through the fabric of his pants.

“You’re so beautiful like this, so open, so giving. I want you to give yourself to me, Bruce, let me see you,” Jeremiah rambles into the skin of Bruce’s neck, interspersing his words with bites and sucks to the delicate flesh, marking him.

Bruce can hear himself whining again, but he can’t stop. He knows he won’t be able to hide the marks that Jeremiah is currently sucking into his neck, knows that Alfred and Jim will see them when he walks into the GCPD tomorrow, and the flash of shame that rushes through him shouldn’t feel so arousing.

He hates himself for this. He hates that he let Jeremiah get to him so easily, that he was weak and gave in instead of fighting. Mostly he hates how much he doesn’t hate it.

He can’t tell if it’s the leftover adrenaline from earlier, or the fact that it’s Jeremiah doing this to him, or even just the foreign sensation of having his prostate stroked from the inside, but Bruce is going to come embarrassingly fast. He’s not entirely sure if he’s capable of orgasming with the screwdriver inserted, or what sort of damage it will cause, but he feels his balls tighten regardless. 

He doesn’t have to find out, because Jeremiah suddenly pulls the screwdriver away. Bruce screams at the sudden jolt of pain, but it quickly turns to blinding rapture as the pressure in his balls erupts and he spills himself onto his heaving stomach in long, trembling spurts. 

When he finally comes back to himself, it’s to find Jeremiah frantically pawing at his own pants, jerking at his own cock with fast, frenzied strokes. 

“Fuck, fuck, oh Bruce,” Jeremiah chants, and Bruce feels a primitive, visceral sense of satisfaction that he is the reason for Jeremiah losing his vaunted composure. 

Jeremiah comes with a quiet hiss, adding to the mess on Bruce’s stomach. 

Now that his thoughts aren’t muddled by orgasm, Bruce feels the heavy blanket of guilt and remorse settle over him, even as his limbs still twitch with aftershocks of pleasure. The sweat and semen drying on his skin burns like a brand, and Bruce feels dirty, contaminated. A hollow sadness carves its way into the space between his ribs, and Bruce can hear his breath hitching with every inhale. He knows that if he were to start crying, he wouldn’t be able to stop, and he forces his breath to steady.

Without the distraction of pleasure, Bruce can feel the pain coming back. His wrists are bruised and bloody from the restraints, he can feel dried blood on his forehead, and knows he is a likely candidate for concussion thanks to his tumble down the stairs. His softening cock is sore and aching, and he hisses, over-sensitive, when Jeremiah brushes against it as the other man tucks himself away and buttons up his pants. 

“You’re beautiful like this, Bruce. I did this to you, a masterpiece of my own creation, and you look divine.” Jeremiah nuzzles into Bruce’s neck as he murmurs, a gross imitation of the comfort and affection that Bruce craves. 

“It seems a shame to cover up such exquisite work, but I can’t have just anyone walking in here and seeing you like this. I don’t like to share,” Jeremiah’s voice deepens possessively as he leans closer until he’s whispering directly into Bruce’s ear, “and this belongs to me.” 

Jeremiah pulls away suddenly, and Bruce flinches at the rush of cold air against his exposed abdomen and groin. The older man produces a handkerchief from somewhere, probably another pocket, and starts to wipe at the mess on Bruce’s stomach. Once Bruce has been cleaned to Jeremiah’s satisfaction (Bruce isn’t sure if he’ll ever truly feel clean again), he shimmies Bruce’s boxers and pants back over the younger man’s hips, and Bruce flinches at the rough scrape of the fabric against his tender dick. 

Jeremiah stands up. “I truly appreciate what you gave to me tonight, Bruce, but I’m afraid I’ve got to get going. Things to do, cities to destroy and all that. Don’t come looking for me again, darling. I’ll find you when the timing is right.” He brushes at the dust on his suit before sauntering down the remaining steps and out of Bruce’s view.

“Jeremiah,” Bruce calls frantically. “Jeremiah!” He pulls uselessly against the handcuffs.

He hates himself for putting away the bobby pin from earlier. He should honestly just start keeping it taped to his wrist. As it is, he’ll have to dislocate his thumb to get free. Bruce struggles to breathe through the pain. He knows he’ll have to get the wounds on his wrists looked at, the risk of infection is pretty high, but antibiotics are hard to come by right now, and he hates using them for himself when they should be going to someone more deserving. 

His thumb clicks audibly and painfully as he forces the joint out of place, but it allows him enough space to slip his hand through the cuff. He picks the remaining lock much faster this time, though it is difficult to work around his dangling thumb.

Once both his hands are free, he quickly buttons his pants, which Jeremiah had left undone, and straightens his shirt. Bruce stands, resolutely not looking at the stained glass portrait of Jeremiah behind him. As much as he wants to break down and cry, he has to get out of here first. 

He isn’t sure if it’s the concussion, or the aftermath of the mind numbing orgasm, but his limbs feel heavy and uncoordinated, and he has to lean against the railing to make it down the stairs. 

Bruce desperately hopes he doesn’t run into anyone on his way back, either hostile or friendly. He doesn’t have the energy or strength to fight right now, and he doesn’t think he could stand seeing the look on Jim or Alfred’s face when they see the marks on his neck and his dishevelled state. He tells himself that they wouldn’t know what happened, that he could lie and say he was attacked and assaulted against his will (not entirely untrue, after all the best lies are based on truth), but he knows how protective they are, and it would be better if he could operate without their constant hovering. 

Because despite Jeremiah’s warning, he has no intention of giving up his search for the other man. If anything, he feels more desperate, more resolved to put a stop to whatever wicked chaos Jeremiah has planned. Because if Jeremiah is distracted with Bruce, then at least he’s not hurting the people Bruce loves. Bruce tells himself that he can live with that.

It’s a long walk back alone through the Dark Zone. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to Hell for this and dragging all of you with me ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
